As a girl (or boy) why does the dichotomy of being a surfer and a 'stylish' person seem to not exist to the greater collective mind? Unless you are Cameron Diaz, the idea of being a wholesome, well-rounded girl who loves salt water in her hair, up her nose, in her mouth gimme gimme, as well as having profound feelings for Balenciaga and the likes seems hard to marry?
Do I have to choose between being grungy or being healthy? In which case, I would favour the latter, naturally. I have long outgrown my emaciated sense of belonging. However, my sense for aesthetics and the deep-found appreciation for 'high fashion' (oh how I hate that term) I cultivated whilst spending time in Europe, emaciated, is ever-present.
I started surfing three years ago, and was utterly convinced from the first time I bashed white water. At that time I was pursuing a darker shades of black and wore skeletons around my neck with conviction. I still wear mostly black. The onset of this affiliation was simple: because it makes me look good. I enjoy the mysteria of black, more so than any other colour. I have no emotive reasoning for it. I have a head of blond hair, best described as surf hair, and I am of healthy weight.
Judging by the demeaning looks I score on the occasions I venture back into those places I used to frequent, my status as being stylish and trendsetting has been revoked. In this small town, you have to choose one or the other. Once again, simple choice. But does my work for insight make me a surfer chick? I enjoy a stiff hoodie layered with a biker jacket, I wear heavy boots with loose insight jeans. I suppose the question is self-answerable - I have my own style - all-encompassing.
What has changed is my previous obsession with being at the top of my fashion game at all times. I approach every day with much more ease and relaxedness, the ocean has softened me, I feel closer to where I am going, daily. This 'letting down of hair' has divorced me from my previous affiliates. The pseudo-edgy Euro trash aesthetic that currently rages through this city, dictated by a hand-full of tweens who have spent a year or so flitzing about on the EuroStar, picking up vintage Buffaloes and sporting them with irony back home. Even grunge did better for our scene than over-sized boxing shorts and gardener's beanies. I don't think I'm old fashioned, noted. However I have no tolerance for bad taste, disguised as envelope pushing fashion trends. It's the truth!
I am happier, healthier, and a whole lot more seated in life. At the expense of my credentials as a fashionista, I shall happily oblige. I'm still at the top of my game, I just don't advertise it on my hemline anymore.
I have grown up, n'est pas.
Tuesday
There has been so little time to write lately. Tempted to do more re-blogging of pictures. There are just so many beautiful things out there! After a month of writing this blog, I am now officially paid to blog, who would have thought this was such a swift process? Happy days. Although i miss sleeping. I don't even sleep on the weekends these days - too busy chasing sunlight I don't see during office hours.
What else. It's gotten cold in Cape Town and the swell is picking up which is happy days for those not up-keeping a nine to five. Grump. I have officially been appointed first female brand ambassador for Insight in South Africa, this makes me rather giggly. Lots and lots and lots of free clothing from my favourite brand - could I be more spoilt? I shall be initiating more brand activation and lifestyle orientated marketing for the brand, as this aspect to Insight is completely underutilised within the South African market.
Slowly but surely I am edging myself towards a greater goal, it's all starting to take shape. No haste. Organic growth and what not. Although it seems difficult to settle to a steady pace, when I quite enjoy hitting the ground running.
Tuesday is nearly done. TG aait!
Wednesday
Booooobs
I must take care not to fall into the habit of re-blogging what has already been posted elsewhere, but I can't seem to be able to help it, when I find something I love I simply must share.This story is in line with the previous spread of naked nuns, albeit more editorial and less moody.
Must write more,
must write more.
Although - I'm not quite sure who I am writing for . . .
Hello oh-oh-oh! Anybody there er-er-er?
Mirren Magazine/Blush Spring 2010
Photographer: James McKenzie
Monday
Naked Nuns
My personal stance on religion tilting somewhat towards the cynical side, this shoot is, albeit nothing new, a pleasing interpretation of sister's alter-ego. I love a bit of juxtapositioning, especially when the 'holy seal' of religion is peeled off to reveal a slightly nasty (in this instance just beautiful) underneath. Think the current, and re-occurent scandal of Catholic Priests and little boys. Cynicism justified? I think so... Guinevere Van Seenus and Missy Rayder's faces have the perfect dogmatic thing going on, no remorse for nudist nuns! Also, more bums, naturally.
Editorial for Pop Magazine - Nun Head
Pictures: Sebasstion Faena
Thank you Mimi
Friday
Florence and the Machine
Swimming - Florence and the Machine
This song is perhaps my favourite song by the band, unfortunately I seem to be incapable to figure out how to embed the video, so please follow the link to YouTube. It's the most spectactular song. Kick up the dust!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s2pSFd-K4uU&feature=related
Go!!!
This song is perhaps my favourite song by the band, unfortunately I seem to be incapable to figure out how to embed the video, so please follow the link to YouTube. It's the most spectactular song. Kick up the dust!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s2pSFd-K4uU&feature=related
Go!!!
Will you stop sighing. Please.
Time again for a bit of the written word, this is after all a showcase space for it (not for glorifying behinds):
Although I am not quite sure what it is am to write about, as the click-clack automatically strings one letter to the next on my dirty keyboard. Suppose that is what this indursty is doing to me. Automated literature. I am at work, sitting inside a cubicle-like construction, facing a white semi-wall supporting many post its reminding me to keep things in perspective, whilst the art director sitting to my left will not stop sighing. It seems intrinsic to his being - he doesn't even take the slightest of notice of my irritation as he expels yet another long and heavy groan. Sighing is a mild description of his variant. His is a unique amalgamation of growling, old-man moaning, vocal-chord grunting, all packaged into a noteworthy exhalation. He sounds unlike anything I could possibly describe. No metaphorical parallels. It's his own. He is a young man, younger than me, of statuesque build - self-important air. He freelances here. On other days he crafts at his entrepreneurial fortune. His girlfriend is the weather girl on TV. They phone each other many times a day, and he always answers the phone with a feeble 'hey hey'. He wears heavy leather shoes, sometimes more refined and pointy, but he is sure to move his feet with such vigour as he strides through the agency that, regardless of the nature of his soles, his footwear is sure to make a bold sound of announcement.
Ahh - he just sneezed! Imagine the sneezing version of groaning guy. It's loud. and projected, no question. Although he has enough etiquette not to route his guster in my direction. Whop, there he goes again. Groooowalllnnnffff...hhhhm. Evidently the man just really can not help it! Does weather girl take notice? Although, 'hey hey' leads me to believe that honeymoon period is still well-dumbing to what is bound to become worse with age. Only 24! Poor girl. Given, I don't mind the guy, in fact we actually get along rather well. I wear headphones most of the day.
I have adjusted, as has she I am sure. Adapt or die. Death by aural harassment of another man's exasperating habit.
Sigh ...
Although I am not quite sure what it is am to write about, as the click-clack automatically strings one letter to the next on my dirty keyboard. Suppose that is what this indursty is doing to me. Automated literature. I am at work, sitting inside a cubicle-like construction, facing a white semi-wall supporting many post its reminding me to keep things in perspective, whilst the art director sitting to my left will not stop sighing. It seems intrinsic to his being - he doesn't even take the slightest of notice of my irritation as he expels yet another long and heavy groan. Sighing is a mild description of his variant. His is a unique amalgamation of growling, old-man moaning, vocal-chord grunting, all packaged into a noteworthy exhalation. He sounds unlike anything I could possibly describe. No metaphorical parallels. It's his own. He is a young man, younger than me, of statuesque build - self-important air. He freelances here. On other days he crafts at his entrepreneurial fortune. His girlfriend is the weather girl on TV. They phone each other many times a day, and he always answers the phone with a feeble 'hey hey'. He wears heavy leather shoes, sometimes more refined and pointy, but he is sure to move his feet with such vigour as he strides through the agency that, regardless of the nature of his soles, his footwear is sure to make a bold sound of announcement.
Ahh - he just sneezed! Imagine the sneezing version of groaning guy. It's loud. and projected, no question. Although he has enough etiquette not to route his guster in my direction. Whop, there he goes again. Groooowalllnnnffff...hhhhm. Evidently the man just really can not help it! Does weather girl take notice? Although, 'hey hey' leads me to believe that honeymoon period is still well-dumbing to what is bound to become worse with age. Only 24! Poor girl. Given, I don't mind the guy, in fact we actually get along rather well. I wear headphones most of the day.
I have adjusted, as has she I am sure. Adapt or die. Death by aural harassment of another man's exasperating habit.
Sigh ...
Thursday
More Richard Burbridge - Metal Heads
It seems I can't quite get enough of this incredible photographer. He has the capacity to capture the most eery moments, whilst maintaining this distinct innocence. The scandinavian aesthetic.
Wednesday
Richard Burbridge's Masks
These photographs were taken by Richard Burbridge for the Swedish magazine Livraison. They are terrifying. The proposed innocence of the models behind the masks and the clean and well-produced nature of the shots of this beauty portraiture contrasted by the sometimes industrial fetish, sometimes tribal construction of the masks is quite enchanting. Take note of ruffled hair and bare upper bodies - connoting what, if anything? Eyes wide open yet relaxed, shoulders not tense. Make me your victim.
Tuesday
Yellow Belly
Yesterday I saw something that deeply disturbed me. As I stopped by a convenience store in my area after work, I heard, even before I saw, a down-syndrome man of about 28 being accosted by the Indian shop keeper and his assistant. Both of them seemed to be enjoying the act, there were smiles all over their vicious faces while their victim was squealing like a pig. I was taken aback by what I had just witnessed, and walked into the isles, though all I needed was airtime from the counter. My initial reaction was to turn away. It was easy enough.
When I walked towards the till, the man had been pushed to the ground, and the shopkeeper was now kicking and punching him, whilst the black assistant lady was smirking him along, like a smug cheerleader cheering on her quarterbackdick boyfriend punching a junior in the face. It turned out that the moonbaged, spectacle-faced dupe has pocketed three Bar One chocolates to harvest this beating. I asked the brownfaced dastard to stop. I didn't say it very loud. Part of me was too shocked, winded by what I was seeing, another part of me felt gut-less. I repeated myself two or three times. Another man had come to the scene, and was asking the victim for him mother's name, but he had withdrawn completely, resorting instead to a continuous, torturous wailing of tears and "I am innocent, I just want to go home". The Indian wouldn't stop tormenting the man. He kept on poking, provoking until his plaything wet his pants.
I dumbed down. I bought my 12 Rands worth of airtime, gave the other assistant my money, and turned my back - I did nothing.
I am a coward, and there is no excuse for it. It's the squealing that I can't stop hearing . . .
When I walked towards the till, the man had been pushed to the ground, and the shopkeeper was now kicking and punching him, whilst the black assistant lady was smirking him along, like a smug cheerleader cheering on her quarterbackdick boyfriend punching a junior in the face. It turned out that the moonbaged, spectacle-faced dupe has pocketed three Bar One chocolates to harvest this beating. I asked the brownfaced dastard to stop. I didn't say it very loud. Part of me was too shocked, winded by what I was seeing, another part of me felt gut-less. I repeated myself two or three times. Another man had come to the scene, and was asking the victim for him mother's name, but he had withdrawn completely, resorting instead to a continuous, torturous wailing of tears and "I am innocent, I just want to go home". The Indian wouldn't stop tormenting the man. He kept on poking, provoking until his plaything wet his pants.
I dumbed down. I bought my 12 Rands worth of airtime, gave the other assistant my money, and turned my back - I did nothing.
I am a coward, and there is no excuse for it. It's the squealing that I can't stop hearing . . .
Monday
Bums
It seems my fascination with the female behind is far from exhausted as I stumble across more and more beautiful images (actively looking for them is not exactly counter-productive). Here is my current favourite collection. Happy Monday fellas (and ladies with mutual levels of appreciation for the perfect shaped ass).
This is fiction
This Monday:
He would spend days breathing down my neck, giving instructions then reverting to the original. My writing seemed irrelevant to my post here. Though my writing was the reason I was hired, the seemingly mandatory procedure of treating me like a child took precedence over skill.
Perhaps I am, by nature, too inquisitive to settle for routinised process and old-method of treating someone as the underdog because 'that is how it's done around here'. I realise that I might be the common denominator in this one, but I refuse to accept the idea of degrading, ultimately undermining someone's ability to rise to the occasion due to the amount of time that that person has spent in the assigned position.
I take no issue with being humbled, I merely find people who use titles as an authoritative joker-card to disguise being threatened by my potential slightly offensive.
He would spend days breathing down my neck, giving instructions then reverting to the original. My writing seemed irrelevant to my post here. Though my writing was the reason I was hired, the seemingly mandatory procedure of treating me like a child took precedence over skill.
Perhaps I am, by nature, too inquisitive to settle for routinised process and old-method of treating someone as the underdog because 'that is how it's done around here'. I realise that I might be the common denominator in this one, but I refuse to accept the idea of degrading, ultimately undermining someone's ability to rise to the occasion due to the amount of time that that person has spent in the assigned position.
I take no issue with being humbled, I merely find people who use titles as an authoritative joker-card to disguise being threatened by my potential slightly offensive.
Thursday
Wednesday
The virgin post
I suppose it is mandatory for me to launch my blog, writing about how I have finally succumb to blogging. I have. Hi. Do I now venture into what it is that I plan to write about, or do I admit (true or false) that I am doing this partly to add my two cents into the virtual world of over-populated opinion bloggers, or because I have no other outlet for my buzzing mind since I started a nine to five?
That's all irrelevant, no? I have created this blog to share my many thoughts (if you do not care for them, do not follow), to rant and to do something, for god's sake.
I AM BORED!
I shall try my best for those loyal few of you to visit me here from time to time to entertain and inspire.
LIST OF THINGS I COULD WRITE ABOUT IN TIME TO COME:
Ingrown Hairs
Sisters and Brothers-in-law
Dead Man's Bones
Kookie Surfing
My take on fashionable people
My take on people I think are actually fashionable
Holidays (or lack thereof)
Money
Florence and the Machine
The Citizens Band
Fashion photographers with feathered haircuts
Their meager muse girlfriends
Popular
Harvey
Details
Spray mount
Upper-lip Hair
Milan Kundera
Obituaries
Ex-boyfriends
New girlfriends of ex-boyfriends
Annoying people
People on your team
People on my team
Office Jobs
Stupidity
I better stop that now, I might lose interest in blogging long before the end of that list (and I am bored of listing random things).
Cool, follow me.
Easy.
That's all irrelevant, no? I have created this blog to share my many thoughts (if you do not care for them, do not follow), to rant and to do something, for god's sake.
I AM BORED!
I shall try my best for those loyal few of you to visit me here from time to time to entertain and inspire.
LIST OF THINGS I COULD WRITE ABOUT IN TIME TO COME:
Ingrown Hairs
Sisters and Brothers-in-law
Dead Man's Bones
Kookie Surfing
My take on fashionable people
My take on people I think are actually fashionable
Holidays (or lack thereof)
Money
Florence and the Machine
The Citizens Band
Fashion photographers with feathered haircuts
Their meager muse girlfriends
Popular
Harvey
Details
Spray mount
Upper-lip Hair
Milan Kundera
Obituaries
Ex-boyfriends
New girlfriends of ex-boyfriends
Annoying people
People on your team
People on my team
Office Jobs
Stupidity
I better stop that now, I might lose interest in blogging long before the end of that list (and I am bored of listing random things).
Cool, follow me.
Easy.
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